The Bourbon Kings

Everything happened in a weird combination of slo-mo and speed of sound: The blast of lightning that came out of the sky right above the house. The explosion of noise and the bomb burst of illumination.

That tree limb that was the size of an I beam cracking free of the trunk and falling to the ground.

Right as Lizzie pulled up under it.

The crunching sound of metal getting crushed stopped his heart in his chest.

“Lizzie!” he screamed as he went airborne off the porch.

Rain pelted him in the face, and the wind was like a pack of dogs tearing at his clothes, but he bolted across the puddled ground at a dead run.

Death comes in threes.

“No!” he hollered into the storm. “Nooooo!”

The Yaris had crumpled under the weight, its roof mashed down flat, its hood caved in—and his own life flashed through his mind as he skidded to a halt in his bare feet. Branches with bright green, new spring leaves were everywhere, compromising his vision as much as the rain and the wind—and still lightning flashed and thunder carried on as if nothing important had happened.

“Lizzie!”

He dove into the wet mess of the leaves, clawing to get through, get around, get over. Even with all the wind, he could smell the gasoline, the oil, and hear the hiss of an engine that had been mortally wounded.

Maybe all the damp would stop a fire from igniting?

Lane changed tactics and began to climb up and over—until he worked his way around and onto the front of the car. Finally, he felt something slick and wet under his hands, and he knocked on it, wanting her to know he was there. “Lizzie, I’m going to get you out!”

With frantic jerks, he tore through the leaves and branches—until he found the spidered, bowed-out glass of the front windshield. The panel was still intact—but that didn’t last long. Squeezing up a fist, he punched through and all but shoved himself into the opening.

Lizzie was laying sideways, her head in the passenger seat, her arms flopping around as if she were trying to orient herself. Both air bags had blown, and the chalky dryness in the air was at odds with the storm’s tremendous humidity.

“Lizzie!”

At least she was moving.

Shit. There was no way he could get any of the doors opened. He was going to have to pull her out.

Reaching forward, he touched her face. “Lizzie?”

Her eyes were fluttering, and there was blood on her forehead. “Lane …?”

“I got you. I’m going to get you out. Are you hurt? Your neck? Your back?”

“I’m sorry I hit … your car …”

He closed his eyes for a split second, and said a prayer. Then he snapped back into action. “I’m going to have to drag you out.”

Fighting his way further into the interior, he somehow managed to reach the seat belt release, and then he grabbed ahold of her upper arms—

And stopped.

“Lizzie? Listen to me—are you sure you’re not hurt? Can you move your arms and legs?” When she didn’t reply, he felt a fresh surge of alarm. “Lizzie? Lizzie!”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Back in Charlemont, Edward was not paying any attention to how his remaining horse did in the Derby. He wasn’t even at the track.

No, he was trying on a new role.

Stalker.

Sitting behind the wheel of a Red & Black Stables truck, he glanced through the passenger window at the enormous brick mansion he was parked in front of.

Built in the early 1900s, the great Georgian pile was even larger than Easterly—which had been the point. The Suttons had been the interloping upstarts for almost a century at that point, and as that family’s fortune finally overtook the Bradfords’, they had constructed the house as a trophy to their triumph. With some twenty or thirty bedrooms and a village of staff quarters under its massive roof, the manse was nearly a city unto itself—on the second-best rise in town with the second-best view of the river and the second-best garden.

But yes, they had Easterly beat on size.

Just as the Sutton Distillery Corporation was bigger by thirds than the BBC.

Edward shook his head and glanced at the crappy watch he’d taken to wearing. If Sutton stayed true to her usual schedule, it would not be long now.

At least nobody in a uniform with a barking German shepherd at his side was harassing him to leave. Sutton Smythe’s family estate had security that was every bit as tight as Easterly’s, but he had two things going for him. One was the logo on his vehicle: the R&B trademark was like a royal warrant, and even if he had been a serial killer parked in the downtown lobby of the courthouse, there was every possibility that the police would leave him alone with that thing in place. The second gimme he had in his favor was the Derby. Undoubtedly, everyone was still talking about the race, settling up bets, reliving the glory.

Soon. She would be home soon.

After Lane had gotten him back to the farm, he had taken some of his meds and had a drink. Then he had reread the mortgage papers … and lasted about ten more minutes before he’d picked up Sutton’s evening purse and limped out to one of his trucks.

Moe and Shelby and the rest of the stablehands were down at the track with the trainers and the horses. As he’d driven off, he’d thought it was a shame to waste the peace and quiet at the farm—but this was something he needed to handle in person.

Rain began to fall, first as a few drops; then as a drizzle.

He checked his watch again.

Thirteen minutes. He was betting she would be home in thirteen minutes: Whereas most of the two hundred thousand people at Steeple-hill Downs were going to enjoy a long trek back to wherever they had left their cars, followed by a further gridlock as they attempted to get on the highway, folks like the Bradfords and the Suttons had police escorts that got them in and out the back ways fast.